A flurry of excited murmurs broke out amongst the wedding guests, followed by the sounds of tissues being drawn and noses being blown. For his part, Godfrey sat back and stared at the ceiling, praying that the ceremony would end soon and that the reception, afterwards, wouldn't be too awkward. Because, despite the sheer number of young, attractive, single women at the wedding, there was only one girl on his mind: Francine. And until she'd resolved the matter of whether or not they were to continue their relationship out here - he had neither the time nor the patience for any other girl.
"You may kiss the bride," said Father McGrane loudly, a broad smile punctuating his round and pointed face.
Godfrey watched the two embrace, the tall and strapping François Girard, a year younger than he, taking in his arms the petite and bubbly Juliette Croteau, the daughter of Alcide and Elizabeth Croteau of Heath who he'd met once or twice in town.
"I can't take much more of this, Antonia," said Isaac from two feet away.
Godfrey turned to see the reaction of his sister-in-law who had previously been transfixed by the ceremony, her eyes seemingly glued to the altar.
"Oh, Isaac. They came to our wedding."
"Yeah. And we've already gone to her sister's wedding and her cousin's wedding and his brother's wedding."
Godfrey hid his smile, turning away in time to see the newlyweds racing down the aisle through a flurry of confetti, François carrying Juliette in his arms as though she were a toy.
"And that's that," said Isaac, rising to his feet to clap with the rest. "Now we've got an hour until we have to be at the banquet hall and I'm going for a drink. Come on, Godfrey."
Happy to oblige, Godfrey eased past the two young women standing beside him and followed his brother out of the church.
"Can you believe that? Wedding after wedding after wedding. A man needs a break."
"You're not wrong, Isaac."
"And we buy gifts for all of these too," he said, his irritation subsiding as they reached the street and began walking, distancing themselves from the newlyweds and other guests cajoling happily at the curbside.
"That gets expensive."
"Just a little bit."
"Isaac!"
The two men stopped and turned to see a short and stocky fellow in a pair of oil-stained overalls hurrying towards them.
"I've got that new roller bearing for you," he said, gesturing towards the garage across the street.
"Well, that was fast."
"Yeah. Overnight delivery from Edmonton. That's not an option in winter."
"No. I guess not."
The man, whose name patch read "Joe", nodded.
Isaac sighed and glanced longingly up the street towards the bar and then looked back at Joe. Godfrey wondered if going for a drink was more important than getting the part for his tractor.
"Let's go have a look then, eh? Here, Godfrey. Do you mind? It should only take a few minutes. Joe, this is my brother. Godfrey."
"Joe Campbell. Nice to meet ya."
They shook hands.
"You as well."
"There a wedding going on?" he asked as they crossed the street.
Isaac looked at the massive crowd now milling about the church steps, congratulating the happy couple as they climbed into a Chevy Coupe that was bedecked in white streamers and balloons. "Yeah. Friends of Antonia's dad's."
"Hmm."
"You run the garage here?" asked Godfrey as they crossed the street and approached the wide opening created by the open garage door.
A grizzled, grey-haired man was sat outside, reading a newspaper and eating sunflower seeds and Joe gave him a nod as they filed past and into the shop.
"Yeah. My dad bought the place in oh-six and it's been in our family ever since. My brother ran the place for awhile, but decided after a few months that it wasn't for him and took off to Edmonton. And then I got it - here we are," said Joe as they reached the counter that was as oily as his overalls and strewn with tools and an assortment of parts. Godfrey watched as he pushed several items aside and withdrew a cylindrical-shaped object. "One Fordson rear axle roller bearing and sleeve assembly. That should do, eh?"
"We'll see," Isaac answered, taking the object and rotating it in his hands. "If I can't get it installed I'll have to have you come out and do it for me. I figure with Antonia's cooking I can convince ya."
Joe's face split into a wide grin. "I'll do anything for Antonia's cooking. What's that meat pie she makes, again?"
"Tourtière."
"Yeah. Torteeyer. It's good stuff. I tried getting our Lila to make it - wasn't fit for the pigs to eat."
Godfrey ignored their conversation as he drank in the sights and smells of the small machine shop. Oil. Gas. Metal jerry cans lining the counters. A clock in the shape of a grain elevator. Hazy light filtering through a small window and illuminating the millions of dust particles floating in the air.
"This about do it?" asked Isaac, digging into his wallet and removing a five dollar bill.
Joe looked at the money. "That'll do it."
He pocketed the money as Isaac wrapped the freshly-oiled part in newspaper.
"You boys got time for a beer?"
"Yes, we most certainly do."
Godfrey didn't like that Isaac hadn't even looked at him to see if this was alright. Though, it wasn't as though he fancied standing on the church lawn with all the other guests, whiling away the hour until the reception.
"Here. Grab a seat. I'll be back in a minute."
"Thanks, Joe."
"Don't mention it."
"If you ever need a part or some sort of repair done - Joe Campbell's your man," Isaac said when the mechanic was out of earshot.
Godfrey nodded. "Seems fair."
"Yep. Good guy. Definitely fair."
Joe returned a minute later with three, semi-cold Molsons and they shared a drink together, discussing the latest Chevrolet and Ford models and which, if any, was possible to take out during winter. After nearly an hour, Isaac announced that it was time for them to head over to the Wainwright Hotel for the wedding reception and they said their goodbyes, Godfrey promising to bring his mechanical troubles to Joe if he ever had the need.
June 27, 1921
Dear Godfrey,
I almost can't bring myself to write you. I don't know how to say this exactly so I'll just come right out and say it. I'm seeing someone. His name's Michel. We met at New Year's and we've been going steady ever since.
Your letters make me feel so guilty - and I shouldn't feel guilty. Because I'm here and you're there. And I really like Michel.
I loved you Godfrey. Just so you know. I want you to know that. But I also know that I have to move on. I can't do this anymore. Our correspondance. It's too much. I need some time and space.
It's not that I don't want you to never write me again - I still want to hear from you once a year or so. Maybe at Christmas or Easter or something. But it's too confusing for me - all this mixed up stuff. I don't want to have feelings for you anymore. I can't. It's too hard on me. You know, I still remember when we were sat at La Buena Vista that afternoon and you were asking me whether or not you should move out West or not. And I told you to go, didn't I? So I wasn't selfish like most girls would have been. Jeanne certainly wouldn't have told you to go. Nor would any of my other friends. In fact, a lot of them told me I was crazy for allowing you to leave. To walk out of my life. But I didn't want you to hold back. And now, here I am, getting on things. And I'm relatively happy - except I still think of you from time to time. That's to be expected though, isn't it? We were together for almost a year. But I can't have you writing so often, Godfrey. It stirs up too many emotions in me. Can you promise to write once a year? That would be enough for me. Just so I know you're making out alright. My mom said to say hello to you.
Take care of yourself, Godfrey.
Francine
Tear drops. And he wasn't a crier. Wiping his eyes, Godfrey pushed the letter away and stared at the b
lack, kalsomine-covered walls of the grain elevator. He shut his eyes and thought of Francine. Her hair. Her eyes. Her body. The way she smiled.
Would he really never be with her?
A hollow formed in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't given it much thought. He'd just expected that it would somehow work out.
I was a fool.
How could it have worked out? With him out here and her in Montreal?
She let me leave so easily...did she ever love me? That's not fair, Godfrey. She did love you. It was good of her to let you go. She wasn't one of the clingy ones. And that's the kind you like, isn't it? That's the price you pay.
The young man sighed and managed a small smile as several more tears slid down his cheeks. His life had changed so much in just one year. It was overwhelming. That's why he was crying.
At least I can justify it. Crying like a little girl. It isn't good for a man to cry.
Though, to be fair, he considered that he wasn't quite a man yet. Maybe in a few more years. Twenty-one was still on the cusp.
Drying his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, Godfrey moved to the water bucket that stood on the table in the corner and dipped a hand inside. He withdrew a small amount of water, ice cold and quivering in the palm of his cupped hand, and then splashed it over his face. He rubbed his eyes and blew at the water that rolled onto his lips.
I just need some time. Another year. Maybe two. And things will turn around. I'll have money. Friends. Maybe meet a nice gal...
At least now he knew where he stood with Francine. There'd be no relationship between them. There was no future for them. In a way, it was somewhat liberating. He was free from the emotional torment the not-knowing had been causing him. Perhaps, more importantly, he was free to begin courting one of the girls in town - not that any had yet caught his fancy. But he was sure that, eventually, there'd be one. And this time, when he found her, he wouldn't let go.
Chapter Six
"Best steak in town," said Leo enthusiastically as he sprinkled salt and pepper onto the generous cut of strip loin that lay on his plate. "I eat here a lot, you know. Being a bachelor and all. And I'm never disappointed. You should try their sweet potatoes sometime. Boy. Even mom didn't make 'em that good."
Godfrey watched his brother for a minute, his knife and fork in constant movement as though, if he ate too slow, the food would disappear.
"Here," he said through a mouthful, passing Godfrey the salt and pepper with one massive hand, "throw some on. It spices it up right nice."
Godfrey nodded and dutifully added a liberal amount of the two condiments to his own steak.
"Could we get some more bread, hun?" Leo asked a passing waitress.
The young woman smiled. "Of course, Mr. Leduc. I'll be right back with that."
She looked at Godfrey and smiled as she walked away.
"That there's Theresa. Ukrainian gal. They used to farm next door to me before her mom got sick and they had to move into town."
"Sick with what?" asked Godfrey, curious, as he took a forkful of potatoes.
"Consumption. Nasty business. It's a wonder you or I haven't gotten it yet. Coming out on the trains here? Boy I tell ya. Being packed together like cattle in them rail cars...it can't be good."
Godfrey had not considered this and wondered, somewhat nervously, if any of the people he'd sat beside had been sick.
"But, anyways," he said, slicing off another piece of steak and popping it into his mouth before adding a dose of coffee to wash it down. "That's the way it is, isn't it?"
Theresa returned and set a second bread basket on the table while removing the other one.
"There you are, Mr. Leduc. Anything else I can get for ya?"
She looked at Godfrey again and smiled and he returned her smile with a polite nod. Her gaze was too lustful. It was Corine Messier all over again. And if it wasn't him seated in this chair, she'd be looking that way at another fellow. Certainly not a girl worthy of replacing Francine.
"No thanks, hun," said Leo, reaching into his shirt pocket and withdrawing his money clip. "This is perfect. Here," he said, removing a dollar bill and handing it to her.
She smiled as she accepted the tip. "Thank you, Mr. Leduc. You're always so generous."
Leo spread his hands in a mock admission of guilt. "What can I say? I'm a generous guy."
Theresa served up another smile. "You are a very generous guy, Mr. Leduc. And don't hesitate to ask if you need anything more," she added.
"I won't."
She took one last look at Godfrey, her smile much less pronounced now since he hadn't yet reciprocated, and made her way to another table.
"Like I said, nice girl."
"Seems like it," Godfrey answered, though he imagine the kinds of things she got up to when not at work and whether, if his brother was aware of these, he'd still consider her to be a nice girl.
They didn't speak for several minutes, Leo smacking his lips and tearing off hunks of bread and dipping them into his gravy and then slurping on his coffee while Godfrey ate more slowly, lips together and eyes scanning the faces of the other patrons squished together in the dining room of the Wainwright Hotel.
"So what did you think of that grain agent?" asked Leo once he'd finished eating. He took a long drink of water and sat back in his chair as he stared across the table at his younger brother.
Godfrey shrugged. "I'm glad you were there. It would have been tough to get a good deal with my limited English."
"Right you are. A hundred percent. You can't trust those guys any farther than you can throw them. And it didn't used to be this way," Leo sighed, somewhat uncharacteristically. "We had the Wheat Board last year. But just for the one year. Not sure why they did that. Well, I know why. Politics. As usual. But they should have kept it going. Most folks you talk to 'round here," he said, gesturing to the others seated in the dining room, "feel the same way."
Godfrey listened intently, glancing around the room once more at the faces of the other patrons. "How was it different with the Wheat Board?"
Leo clicked his tongue and set his glass on the table before folding his hands in front of him. "Well, it was different because you sold to a single desk. You and all the other farmers," he said, waving his hand once more to indicate the other diners. "It was a monopoly and there was a single price for wheat, barley, and so on and there was no shinaggling to be done. They could afford to pay us well. Last year, I got two-eighty a bushel. Two-eighty a bushel!"
Godfrey scratched his chin thoughtfully. "And now we're at..."
"Two-ten. Two-ten a bushel."
"That's a big difference."
Leo looked at him, his expression angry. "You're damn right, little brother. And it's only going to get worse. Heck, at this rate, we'll be lucky to get a dollar a bushel next year."
Leo let out a gust of air and moved his eyes to the family seated at the table next to them. The mother, likely in her early thirties, was spoon feeding a well-dressed little boy while his older sister looked on, picking absent-mindedly at the food on her plate. Across the table sat father, bearded and wearing a black bowler hat and matching vest. Judging by the look on his face, he was a man with little patience.
"Anyway," said Leo, looking away as the man turned to meet his gaze, "that's that. What can you do, eh?"
Godfrey struggled to answer, though the question had obviously been rhetorical. "I guess, wait for them to bring the Wheat Board back?"
Leo clicked his tongue again and looked off into space. "Who knows, little brother. There's farmers talking about creating a wheat pool for next year. It'll accomplish the same thing as the Board, but it'll be in Albertan hands. We won't be subject to Ottawa's whims."
Godfrey shook his head in exasperation. "Bloody bureaucrats, eh? Can't seem to get away from it. I leave Québec and come here...and it's the same thing. Dad was right when he said the farmer's still a slave."
"He's right...but then again, farming kept us out of the war. Had we been city
boys, we would have been sent over. No doubt about it. And I sure as hell ain't about to go fightin' any war over in Europe. Nothing to do with me. Farming saved my life - and my manhood. You didn't see the way they taunted the older boys in Montreal who stayed home - and here, in Edmonton. Poor lads could hardly step out the door without being bothered by a pack of bitter, old hens who'd lost their sons and wanted others to die so that their little Tommies and Jimmies weren't the only ones. I'll bet it was that what made most of the guys sign up. The shame. That and all the propaganda. Home by Christmas my arse."
Leo had several friends who had signed up to fight and gone to Europe, never to return. Godfrey on the other hand, being just fourteen when the war broke out, had been like most of his friends - too young to go. Nevertheless, some of the older boys at school - Leo's friends among them - had ended up going. Within a year or two they'd been reduced to names on a memorial plaque inside Saint Timothée's cathedral. As for the rest of the town's young men, the vast majority had stayed home to help their families on the farm, Prime Minister Borden having been of the mind that food production was just as important as fighting.
"I guess, I never gave much thought to all that," said Godfrey slowly, carefully, as he conjured up the image of the bronze plaque with all those names. "But you're right."
"Damn right, I'm right," said Leo brusquely, pulling a toothpick from the box on the table and sticking it between two teeth. He stood up from the table and nodded at Theresa as she passed by. "Anyway, let's get going. It's gonna rain soon and the road to Greenshields isn't much fun when it's muddy."
Chapter Seven
July. Hot. Exceedingly. Though not as humid as Montreal and for that, at least, Godfrey was grateful. His foot tall crop was starting to wilt and he worried he might lose some of it. Leo had told him he could rent a water tank to irrigate - but added that the cost of it might outweigh the benefits. There was plenty of water in the Battle River, of course, but getting it to his farm would be an extraordinary challenge.